UC-NRLF 


B    M    105    M7M 


I 


PRISONERS 


NELSON  PAGE 


Two  Prisoners 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

are  made  to  Messrs.  Harper  & 
Brothers,  in  whose  magazine, 
Harper's  Young  People,  when 
under  the  management  of  the 
late  Alfred  B.  Starey,  some  years 
ago,  this  story  in  a  condensed  form 
first  appeared.  The  story  has  been 
rewritten  and  amplified. — T.N.P 


"STRAIGHT  AU'AY  THE  BIRD  FLEIV" 


Two  Prisoners 

By  Thomas  Nelson  Page 


Illustrated  in  Color 
by 

Virginia  Keep 


New  York    R.  H.  Russell 

MCMIII 


Copyright,  1898 
By  ROBERT  HOWARD  RUSSELL 


Copyright,  1903 
By  HARPER  &  BROTHERS 


s 


2      / 

A  A-  I  A/ 


To    the   memory  of 
ALFRED  B.  STAREY 


Illustrations 

"Straight  Away  the  Bird  Flew"  .  Frontispiece 
"Could  See  a  Little  Girl  Walking 

About  with  her  Nurse"  .  .  .  Facing  p.  22 
"  Mildred  Played  Out-of-Doors 

all  Day  Long"  .....  26 

"cAre  You  a  Princess?'  Asked 

Molly"  .  .,. "  5° 

" < Mother,'  She  Whispered"  .  .  "  80 


Two  Prisoners 


SQUEEZED  in  between  other  old 
dingy  houses  down  a  dirty,  narrow 
street  paved  with  cobble-stones,  and 
having,  in  place  of  sidewalks,  gutters 
filled  with  gray  slop-water,  stood  a  house, 
older  and  dingier  than  the  rest.  It  had 
a  battered  and  knock-kneed  look,  and  it 
leant  on  the  houses  on  either  side  of  it,  as  if  it 
were  unable  to  stand  up  alone.  The  door  was 
just  on  a  level  with  the  street,  and  in  rainy 
weather  the  water  poured  in  and  ran  through 
the  narrow  little  passage  leaving  a  silt  of  mud 
in  which  the  children  played  and  made  tracks. 
The  windows  were  broken  in  many  places, 
and  were  stuffed  with  old  rags,  or  in  some 
places  had  bits  of  oilcloth  nailed  over  the 
holes.  It  looked  black  and  disreputable  even 
in  that  miserable  quarter,  and  it  was.  Only 
the  poorest  and  the  most  unfortunate  would 


Two.  Prisoners 


stay  in  such  a  rookery.  It  seemed  to  be  in 
charge  of  or,  at  least,  ruled  over  by  a  woman 
named  Mrs.  O'Meath,  a  short,  red  faced  crea 
ture,  who  said  she  had  once  been  "a  wash 
lady/'  but  who  had  long  given  up  a  profession 
which  required  such  constant  use  of  water,  and 
who  now,  so  far  as  could  be  seen,  used  no  liquid 
in  any  way  except  whiskey  or  beer. 

The  dingiest  room  in  this  house  was,  per 
haps,  the  little  hall-cupboard  at  the  head  of  the 
second  flight  of  rickety  stairs.  It  was  small 
and  dim.  Its  single  window  looked  out  over 
the  tops  of  wretched  little  shingled  houses  in 
the  bottom  below  to  the  backs  of  some  huge 
warehouses  beyond.  The  only  break  in  the 
view  of  squalor  was  the  blue  sky  over  the  top  of 
the  great  branching  elm  shading  the  white 
back-portico  of  a  large  house  up  in  the  high 
part  of  the  town  several  squares  off.  In  this 
miserable  cupboard,  hardly  fit  to  be  called  a 
room,  unfurnished  except  with  a  bed  and  a 
broken  chair,  lived  a  person — a  little  girl — if 


Two    Prisoners  1 3 

one  could  be  said  to  live  who  lies  in  bed  all  the 
time.  You  could  hardly  tell  her  age,  for  the 
thin  face  looked  much  older  than  the  little 
crooked  body.  There  were  lines  around  the 
mouth  and  about  the  white  face  which  might 
have  been  worn  by  years  or  only  by  suffering. 
The  bed-ridden  body  was  that  of  a  child  of  ten 
or  twelve.  The  arms  and  long  hands  looked  as 
the  face  did — older — and  as  she  lay  in  her 
narrow  bed  she  might  have  been  any  moderate 
age.  Her  sandy  hair  was  straight  and  faded; 
her  dark  eyes  were  large  and  sad.  She  was 
known  to  Mrs.  O'Meath  and  the  few  peo 
ple  who  knew  her  at  all  as  "Molly."  If 
she  had  any  other  name,  it  was  not  known. 
She  had  no  father  or  mother,  and  was  sup 
posed  by  the  lodgers  to  be  some  relative, 
perhaps  a  niece,  of  Mrs.  O'Meath.  She 
had  never  known  her  father.  Her  mother 
she  remembered  dimly,  or  thought  she  did; 
she  was  not  sure.  It  was  a  dim  memory 
of  a  great  brightness  in  the  shape  of 


14  Two    Prisoners 

a  young  woman  who  was  good  to  her  and 
who  seemed  very  beautiful,  and  it  was  all  con 
nected  with  green  trees  and  grass,  and  blue 
skies,  and  birds  flying  about.  The  only  other 
memory  was  of  a  parting,  the  lady  covering 
her  with  kisses,  and  then  of  a  great  loneliness, 
when  she  did  not  come  back,  and  then  of  a 
woman  dropping  her  down  the  stairs — and 
ever  since  then  she  had  been  lying  in  bed.  At 
least,  that  was  her  belief;  she  was  not  sure  that 
the  memory  was  not  a  dream.  At  least,  all  but 
the  bed,  that  was  real. 

Ever  since  she  knew  anything  she  had 
been  lying  a  prisoner  in  bed,  in  that  room  or 
some  other.  She  did  not  know  how  she  got 
there.  She  must  belong  in  some  way  to  Mrs. 
O'Meath,  for  Mrs.  O'Meath  looked  after  her 
and  kept  others  away.  It  was  not  much  "look 
ing  after/'  at  best.  Mrs.  O'Meath  used  to 
bring  her  her  food,  such  as  it  was — it  was  not 
very  much — and  attend  to  her  wants,  and 
bring  her  things  to  sew,  and  make  her  sew 


Two    Prisoners  1 5 

them.  Molly  suffered  sometimes,  for  she 
could  not  walk;  she  had  never  walked — at  least, 
unless  that  vague  recollection  was  true.  She 
had  once  or  twice  asked  Mrs.  O'Meath  about 
her  mother,  but  she  had  soon  stopped  it.  It 
always  made  Mrs.  O'Meath  angry,  and  she 
generally  got  drunk  after  it  and  was  cross  with 
her. 

Sometimes  when  Mrs.  O'Meath  got  drunk 
she  did  not  come  up-stairs  at  all  during  the  day. 
She  was  always  kinder  to  her  next  day,  how 
ever,  and  explained,  with  much  regret,  that 
she  had  been  sick — too  sick  to  get  a  mouthful 
for  herself  even ;  but  other  people  who  lived  in 
the  house  told  Molly  that  she  was  "just  drunk," 
and  Molly  soon  got  to  know  the  signs.  Mrs. 
O'Meath  would  be  cross  and  ugly  and  made 
her  sew  hard.  Sometimes  she  used  to  threaten 
her  with  the  Poorhouse.  Molly  did  not  know 
what  that  was;  she  just  knew  it  was  something 
dreadful  (like  a  prison,  she  thought).  She 
could  not  complain,  however,  for  she  knew 


1 6  Two    Prisoners 

very  well  that  what  Mrs.  O'Meath  did  was  out 
of  charity  for  her  and  because  she  had  prom 
ised  some  one  to  look  after  her.  The  little 
sewing  Molly  was  able  to  do  for  her  was  not 
anything,  she  knew.  Mrs.  O'Meath  often  told 
her  so.  And  it  made  her  back  ache  so  to  sit  up. 

The  rest  of  the  people  in  the  house  were  so 
busy  they  did  not  have  time  to  trouble  them 
selves  about  the  child,  and  Mrs.  O'Meath  was 
cross  with  them  if  they  came  "poking  about," 
as  she  called  it. 

Molly's  companions  were  two  books,  or 
parts  of  books — one  a  torn  copy  of 
the  "Pilgrim's  Progress,"  the  other  a 
copy  of  the  "Arabian  Night's  Entertain 
ment."  Neither  of  them  was  complete,  but 
what  remained  she  knew  by  heart.  She  used 
to  question  the  women  in  the  house,  when 
they  would  stop  at  the  door,  about  things 
outside;  but  they  knew  only  about  their  neigh 
bors  and  their  quarrels  and* misfortunes — who 
got  drunk;  who  had  a  new  sofa  or  frock;  who 


Two    Prisoners  17 

had  been  arrested  or  threatened  by  the  police, 
and  who  had  been  refused  a  drink  at  the  bar. 
Molly's  questions  about  the  fairies  and  great 
ladies  simply  set  her  down  with  them  as  a  half 
crazy  thing.  So  Molly  was  left  to  her  own 
thoughts.  Her  little  bed  was  fortunately  right 
by  the  window,  and  she  could  look  out  over  the 
houses.  The  pigeons  which  circled  about  or 
walked  upon  the  roofs,  pluming  themselves 
and  coquetting,  and  the  little  brown  sparrows 
which  flew  around  and  quarrelled  and  com 
plained,  were  her  chief  companions,  and  she 
used  to  make  up  stories  about  them.  She 
soon  learned  to  know  them  individually,  even 
at  a  distance,  and  knew  where  they  belonged. 
She  learned  their  habits  and  observed  their 
life.  She  knew  which  of  them  were  quiet,  and 
which  were  blustering;  which  were  shy,  and 
which  greedy — most  of  them  were  this — and 
she  used  to  feed  them  with  crumbs  on  the  win 
dow-sill.  She  gave  them  names  out  of  her 
books  and  made  up  stories  about  them  to  her- 


1 8  Two    Prisoners 

self.  They  were  fairies  or  genii,  and  lived  under 
spells;  they  saw  things  hidden  from  the  eyes 
of  men,  and  heard  strange  music  which  the 
ears  of  men  could  not  catch.  One  bird,  how 
ever,  interested  her  more  than  all  the  others.  It 
was  a  bird  in  a  cage,  which  used  to  hang  out 
side  of  the  back  window  of  a  house  not  far  from 
hers,  but  on  another  street.  This  bird  Molly 
watched  more  closely  than  all  the  rest,  and  had 
more  feeling  for  it.  Shut  up  within  the  wire 
bars,  whilst  all  the  other  birds  were  flying  so 
free  and  joyous,  it  reminded  her  of  herself.  It 
had  not  been  there  very  long.  It  was  a  mock 
ing-bird,  and  sometimes  it  used  to  sing  so  that 
she  could  hear  its  notes  clear  and  ringing.  She 
felt  how  miserable  it  must  be,  confined  behind 
its  bars,  when  there  was  the  whole  sky  outside 
for  it  to  spread  its  wings  under.  (It  used  to 
sing  almost  fiercely  at  times.  Molly  was  sure 
that  it  was  a  prince  or  princess  imprisoned  in 
that  form.)  Shortly  after  it  first  came  it  sang 
a  great  deal,  yet  Molly  knew  it  was  not  for 


Two    Prisoners  1 9 

joy,  but  only  to  the  sky  and  the  birds  outside; 
for  it  used  to  flutter  and  look  frightened  and 
angry  whenever  the  woman  leaned  out  of  the 
window;  and  sometimes  the  birds  would  go 
and  look  at  it  in  a  curious,  half  pitying  way, 
and  it  would  try  to  fly,  and  would  strike 
against  the  cage  and  fall  down,  and  then  it 
would  stop  singing  for  awhile.  Molly  would 
have  loved  to  pet  it,  and  then  have  turned  it 
loose  and  seen  it  flying  away  singing.  She 
knew  what  joy  would  have  filled  its  little  heart 
to  see  again  the  woods  and  the  green  fields 
and  pastures  and  streams,  for  she  knew  how 
she  would  have  felt  to  see  them.  She  had 
never  seen  them  in  all  her  life,  unless  she  had 
not  dreamed  that  dream.  Maybe,  if  it  were 
set  free,  it  would  come  back  sometimes  and 
would  sing  for  her  and  tell  her  about  freedom 
and  the  green  fields.  Or,  maybe,  it  might  even 
go  to  Heaven  and  tell  her  mother  about  her. 

The  bird  had  not  always  been  in  a  cage;  it 
had  been  born  in  a  lilac  bush  in  a  great  garden, 


2O  Two    Prisoners 

with  other  lilac  bushes  and  tall  hollyhocks  of 
every  hue,  and  rose  bushes  all  around  it;  and  it 
had  been  brought  up  there,  and  had  found  its 
mate  in  an  orchard  near  by,  where  there  were 
apple  trees  white  with  bloom  and  a  little 
stream  bordered  with  willows,  which  some 
times  looked  almost  white,  too,  when  the  wind 
blew  fresh  and  lifted  the  leaves.  It  had  often 
sung  all  night  long  in  the  moonlight  to  its 
mate;  anid  one  day,  when  it  was  getting  a 
breakfast  for  the  young  in  its  nest  in  the  lilacs, 
it  had  been  caught  in  a  trap  with  slats  to  it; 
and  a  man  had  come  and  had  carried  it  some 
where  in  a  close  basket,  and  had  put  it  into  a 
thing  with  bars  all  around  it  like  a  jail,  and 
with  a  dirty  floor;  and  a  woman  had  bought  it 
and  had  kept  it  shut  up  ever  since  in  a  cage. 
It  had  come  near  starving  to  death  for  a  while, 
for  at  first  it  could  not  eat  the  seed  and  stuff 
which  covered  the  bottom  of  its  cage,  they 
were  so  stale;  but  at  last  it  had  to  eat,  it  was 
so  hungry.  It  grew  sick,  though,  not  being 


Two    Prisoners  2 1 

used  to  being  s'hut  up  in  such  a  close,  hot  place, 
with  people  always  moving  about.  Though  its 
owner  was  kind  to  it,  and  talked  to  it,  and  was 
gentle  with  it,  it  could  not  forget  its  garden 
and  freedom,  and  it  hoped  it  would  die. 
The  woman  used  to  hang  it  outside  of 
her  window,  and  after  she  went  away  it 
used  to  sing,  hoping  that  its  mate  might  hear, 
and,  even  if  it  could  not  release  it,  at  least 
might  come  near  enough  to  sing  to  it  and  tell 
it  of  its  love  and  loneliness,  and  of  the  garden 
and  the  lilacs  and  the  orchard  and  the  dew. 
Then,  again,  when  she  did  not  come,  it  would 
grow  melancholy,  and  sometimes  would  try 
desperately  to  break  out  of  its  prison.  Some 
times  at  night  it  would  dream  of  the  lilacs 
and  would  sing.  How  Molly  watched  it  and 
listened  to  it,  and  how  she  pitied  it  and  hoped 
it  knew  she  was  there,  too! 

One  other  thing  that  interested  Molly 
greatly  was  the  great  gray  house  over  beyond 
the  other  houses.  She  supposed  it  was  a  pal- 


22  Two    Prisoners 

ace.  There  she  could  see  a  little  girl  walking 
about  in  the  long  upper  gallery — sometimes 
alone  and  sometimes  with  a  colored  woman, 
her  nurse.  Molly  had  very  keen  eyes  and 
could  see  clearly  a  long  distance;  but  she  could 
not,  of  course,  see  the  features  of  the  little 
girl.  She  could  only  tell  that  she  had  long 
brown  hair,  and  wore  beautiful  dresses,  some 
times  white,  sometimes  blue,  sometimes  pink. 
She  knew  she  must  be  beautiful,  and  wondered 
if  she  were  a  princess.  She  always  pictured  her 
so,  and  she  was  always  on  the  watch  for  her. 
At  times  she  came  out  with  something  in  her 
arms,  which  Molly  knew  was  a  doll,  and  Molly 
used  to  fancy  how  the  doll  looked;  it  must 
have  golden  ringlets,  and  blue  eyes,  and  pink 
cheeks,  and  look  like  a  princess.  Molly  felt 
sure  that  the  little  girl  must  be  a  princess. 
The  doll  would  be  dressed  in  silk  and  em 
broidery.  She  set  to  work,  and  with  her 
scraps,  left  from  the  pieces  Mrs.  O'Meath 
brought  her,  made  a  dress  and  a  whole  suit  of 


'COULD   SEE    A    LITTLE   CIRL    ]\'ALKI.\'(,'   ABOl.'T    U'JTH 
HER    \l-RSK" 


Two    Prisoners  23 

clothes  for  it,  such  as  she  thought  it  ought  to 
have.  The  dress  was  nothing  but  a  little  piece 
of  shiny  cambric,  trimmed  with  her  silk  bits, 
and  the  underclothes  were  only  cotton;  but 
she  flounced  the  dress  with  ends  of  colored 
thread  and  embroidered  it  beautifully,  and 
folded  it  up  in  a  piece  of  paper  and  stuck  it 
away  under  the  mattress  where  she  kept  her 
treasures. 

One  day  she  saw  the  little  girl  on  the  gal 
lery  playing  with  something  that  was  not  a 
doll;  it  ran  around  after  her  and  hung  on  to 
her  skirt.  At  first  Molly  could  not  see  it  well; 
but  presently  the  little  girl  lifted  it  up  in  her 
arms,  and  Molly  saw  that  it  was  a  little  dog,  a 
fat,  grayish-yellow  puppy .  For  several  days  it 
used  to  come  out  and  play  with  its  little  mis 
tress,  or  she  would  play  with  it,  lifting  it,  car 
rying  it,  feeding  it,  hugging  and  kissing  it. 
Molly  sighed.  Oh,  how  she  would  have  liked 
to  have  a  little  dog  like  that !  Her  little  room 
looked  darker  and  gloomier  than  ever.  She 


24  Two    Prisoners 

turned  over  and  tried  to  sleep,  but  could  not. 
She  was  so  lonely.  She  had  nothing;  she  had 
never  had  anything.  She  could  not  ever  hope 
to  have  a  doll,  but,  oh,  if  she  had  a  puppy! 
Next  day  she  thought  of  it  more  than  ever, 
and  every  day  afterwards  she  thought  of  it. 

She  even  dreamed  about  it  at  night :  a  beau 
tiful,  fat,  yellow  puppy  came  and  got  up  by 
her  on  the  bed  and  cuddled  up  against  her 
and  went  to  sleep.  She  felt  its  breathing.  She 
actually  saved  some  of  her  dinner,  her  bones, 
next  day,  and  hid  them,  to  feel  that  she 
had  some  food  for  it,  though  she  was  hungry 
herself.  No  puppy  came,  however,  and  she 
had  to  give  it  up  and  content  herself  with 
looking  out  for  the  puppy  on  the  white  gal 
lery  under  the  elm  beyond  the  housetops. 


II. 


r  i HE  big  house,  the  back  of  which, 

with  its  double  porticos  and  great 
JL  white  pillars,  Molly  could  see  away 
up  on  the  hill  across  the  interven 
ing  squares,  was  almost  as  different  from 
the  rickety  tenement  in  which  the  little 
cripple  lay  as  daylight  is  from  darkness.  It 
was  on  one  of  the  highest  points  in  the  best 
part  of  the  city,  and  was  set  back  in  grounds 
laid  off  with  flower  beds  and  sur 
rounded  by  a  high  iron  fence.  In  front  it 
looked  out  on  a  handsome  park,  where  foun 
tains  played,  and  at  the  back,  while  it  looked 
over  a  very  poor  part  of  the  town,  rilled  with 
small,  wretched  looking  houses,  they  were  so 
far  beneath  it  that  they  were  almost  as 
much  separated  from  it  as  though  they  had 
been  in  another  city.  A  high  wall  and  a  hedge 
quite  shut  off  everything  in  that  direction,  and 
it  was  only  from  the  upper  veranda  that  one 


26  Two    Prisoners 

knew  there  was  any  part  of  the  town  on  that 
side.  Here,  however,  Mildred,  the  little  girl 
that  Molly  saw  with  her  doll  and  puppy,  liked 
best  to  play. 

Mildred  was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Glendale, 
one  of  the  leading  men  in  the  city,  and  she 
lived  in  this  house  in  the  winter.  In  the  sum 
mer  she  lived  in  the  country,  in  another  house, 
quite  as  large  as  this,  but  very  different.  The 
city  house  was  taller  than  that  in  the  country, 
and  had  finer  rooms  and  handsomer  things. 
But,  somehow,  Mildred  liked  the  place  in  the 
country  best.  The  house  in  the  country  was 
long  and  had  many  rooms  and  curious  corners 
with  rambling  passages  leading  to  them.  It 
was  in  a  great  yard  with  trees  and  shrubbery 
and  flowers  in  it,  with  gardens  about  it  filled 
with  lilacs  and  rosebushes,  and  an  orchard  be 
yond,  full  of  fruit  trees.  Green  fields  stretched 
all  about  it,  where  lambs  and  colts  and  calves 
played.  And  when  in  the  country  Mildred 
played  out  of  doors  all  day  long. 


MILDRED   PLAYED  OUT-OF-DOORS  ALL  DAY  l.<>\<, 


Two    Prisoners  27 

The  city  Mildred  did  not  like.  She  was  a 
little  lame  and  had  to  wear  braces;  but  the 
doctors  had  always  said  she  must  be  kept  out 
of  doors,  and  she  would  become  strong 
and  outgrow  her  lameness.  Thus  she  had 
been  brought  up  in  the  country,  and  knew 
every  corner  and  cranny  there.  She  knew 
where  the  robins  and  mocking-birds  nested; 
the  posts  where  the  bluebirds  made  their 
homes  and  brought  up  their  young,  and  the 
hollow  locusts  where  the  brown  Jenny  Wrens 
kept  house,  with  doors  so  tiny  that  Mildred 
could  not  have  gotten  her  hand  in  them.  In 
town  she  felt  constrained.  There  she  had  to 
be  dressed  up  and  taken  to  walk  by  her 
mammy.  In  the  country  she  never  thought  of 
her  lameness:  but  in  town  she  could  not  help 
it  It  was  hard  not  to  be  able  to  run  about 
and  play  games  like  the  other  children. 
Rough  boys,  too,  would  talk  about  the  braces 
she  had  to  wear,  and  sometimes  would  even 
laugh  at  her.  So  she  was  shy,  and  often 


28  Two    Prisoners 

thought  herself  very  wretched.  Her  mother 
and  her  mammy  used  to  tell  her  that  she  was 
better  off  than  most  little  girls,  but  Mildred 
could  not  think  so.  At  least,  they  did  not  have 
to  wear  braces,  and  could  run  about  where  they 
pleased  and  play  games  and  slide  down  hills 
without  any  one  scolding  them  for  ruining 
their  dresses  or  not  being  a  lady.  Mildred 
often  wished  she  were  not  a  lady,  and,  though 
efforts  were  made  to  satisfy  her  least  whim,  she 
was  dissatisfied  and  unhappy. 

A  large  playroom  was  set  apart  for  her  in 
town;  and  it  was  fitted  up  with  everything 
that  could  be  thought  of.  After  the  first  few 
days  it  ceased  to  give  her  pleasure.  The 
trouble  was  that  it  was  all  "fixed,"  her 
playthings  were  all  "made  playthings."  She 
had  to  play  according  to  rule;  she  could 
not  do  as  she  pleased.  In  the  country 
she  was  free;  she  could  run  about  the 
yard  or  garden,  and  play  with  the  young  birds 
and  chickens  and  "live"  things.  One  "live" 


Two    Prisoners  29 

thing  was,  in  Mildred's  eyes,  worth  all  the 
"made"  ones  in  the  world;  and  if  it  was  sick  or 
crippled,  she  just  loved  it.  A  lame  chicken 
that  could  not  keep  up  with  the  rest  of  the 
brood,  or  a  bird  that  had  broken  its  wing  fall 
ing  out  of  the  nest,  was  her  pet  and  care.  Her 
playroom  in  town  was  filled  with  dolls  and 
toys  of  every  size  and  kind,  and  in  every  condi 
tion,  for  a  doll's  condition  is  different  from 
that  of  people;  it  depends  not  on  the  house  it 
lives  in  and  the  wealth  it  has,  but  on  the  state 
of  its  body  and  features.  Mildred's  playhouse 
in  the  country  was  a  corner  of  a  closet,  under 
the  roof.  There  she  used  to  have  war  with  her 
mammy,  for  Mammy  was  very  strict,  and  had 
severe  ideas.  So  whenever  a  sick  chicken  or 
lame  duck  was  found  crying  and  tucked  up  in 
some  of  the  doll's  best  dresses  there  was  a  bat 
tle.  "I  don't  want  dolls,"  Mildred  would  say. 
"It  don't  hurt  a  doll  to  break  it;  they  don't 
care;  and  it  don't  help  them  to  mend  them; 
they  can't  grow.  I  want  something  I  can 


30  Two    Prisoners 

get  well  and  feed."  Indeed,  this  was  what  her 
heart  hungered  for.  What  she  wanted  was 
company.  She  felt  it  more  in  the  city  than  in 
the  country.  In  town  she  had  nothing  but 
dolls.  She  used  to  think,  "Oh,  if  I  just  had  a 
chicken  or  a  bird  to  pet  and  to  love — some 
thing  young  and  sweet!"  The  only  place  in 
town  where  she  could  do  as  she  pleased  was 
the  upper  back  veranda.  Thus  she  came  to 
like  it  better  than  any  other  spot,  and  was  of- 
tenest  there. 


Ill- 

ONE  day  when  Mildred  had  been 
dressed  up  by  her  mammy  and 
taken  out  to  walk,  as  she  stopped 
on  the  edge  of  the  park  to  rest,  a 
fat,  fawn  colored  puppy,  as  soft  as  a  ball  of 
wool  and  as  awkward  as  a  baby,  came  wadd 
ling  up  to  her  on  the  street;  pulled  at  her 
dress;  rolled  over  her  feet,  and  would  not  let 
her  alone.  Mildred  was  delighted  with  it. 
It  was  quite  lame  in  one  of  its  legs.  She 
played  with  it,  and  hugged  it,  and  fed  it  with  a 
biscuit;  and  it  licked  her  hands  and  pinched 
her  with  its  little  white,  tack-like  teeth.  After 
a  while  Mammy  tried  to  drive  it  away,  but  it 
would  not  go,  it  had  taken  too  great  a  fancy 
to  its  new  found  playmate  to  leave  her,  and, 
though  Mammy  slapped  at  it  and  scolded  it, 
and  took  a  switch  and  beat  it,  it  just  ran  off  a 
little  way  and  then  turned  around  when  they 
moved  on  and  followed  them  again,  coming  up 


32  Two    Prisoners 

to  them  in  the  most  cajoling  and  enticing  way. 
When  they  reached  home  Mammy  shut  it  out 
of  the  gate;  but  it  stayed  there  and  cried,  and 
finally  squeezed  through  the  fence,  scraping  its 
little  fat  sides  against  the  pickets,  and,  running 
up  to  the  porch  after  them,  slipped  into  the 
house,  and  actually  ran  and  hid  itself  from 
Mammy  under  some  furniture  in  the  drawing- 
room. 

Mildred  begged  her  father  to  let  her  keep 
the  dog.  He  said  she  might,  until  they  could 
find  the  owner,  but  that  it  was  a  beautiful 
puppy  and  the  owner  would  probably  want 
him.  Mildred  took  him  to  Tier  veranda  and 
played  with  him,  and  that  night  she  actually 
smuggled  him  into  her  bed;  but  Mammy  found 
him  and  turned  him  out  of  so  snug  a  retreat, 
and  Mildred  was  glad  to  compromise  on  hav 
ing  him  safely  shut  up  in  a  box  in  the  kitchen. 
Her  father  put  an  advertisement  in  the  papers 
and  every  effort  was  made  to  find  the  owner, 
but  he  never  appeared,  which  was  perhaps  due 


Two    Prisoners  3  3 

to  Mildred's  fervent  prayers  that  he  might  not 
be  found.  She  prayed  hard  that  he  might  not 
come  after  Roy,  as  she  named  him,  even  if  he 
had  to  die  not  to  do  so. 

From  that  time  Mildred  found  a  new  life  in 
the  city.  The  two  were  always  together,  play 
ing  and  romping.  Roy  was  the  most  adorable 
of  puppies,  and  was  always  doing  the  most 
comical  and  unexpected  things.  At  times  he 
would  act  like  a  baby,  and  other  times  would 
be  as  full  of  mischief  as  a  boy. 

The  upper  gallery  was  Mildred's  favorite 
place.  Her  mother  had  given  it  up  to  her. 
There  she  could  run  about,  without  having 
Mammy  scold  her  for  letting  Roy  scratch  up 
the  floor.  Roy  made  havoc  in  her  playroom; 
he  appeared  to  have  a  special  fondness  for  doll 
babies,  and  would  chew  their  feet  off  reckless 
ly.  He  did  not  have  a  wholly  easy  time,  how 
ever,  for  Mildred  used  to  insist  on  dressing 
him  up  and  making  him  sleep  in  her  doll's  car 
riage,  and,  as  Roy  had  the  bad  taste  not  to  ap- 


34  Two    Prisoners 

predate  these  honors,  he  had  to  be  trained. 
Mammy  had  been  strict  enough  with  Mildred 
to  give  her  very  sound  ideas  of  discipline,  so 
sometimes  Mildred  used  to  coerce  Roy  till  he 
rebelled  with  whines.  It  was  all  due  to  affec 
tion,  however,  and  Roy  used  to  whine  more 
over  the  huggings  his  little  mistress  gave  him 
than  anything  else. 

"What  you  squeezin'  dat  dog  so  for?  Stop 
dat!  Don'  you  heah  him  crying?"  Mammy 
used  to  say. 

"  'Tain'  any  use  havin'  a  dog  if  you  carn't 
squeeze  him,"  Mildred  would  reply. 

Whenever  they  went  out  Roy  used  to  go 
along.  Roy  was  a  most  inquisitive  dog. 
Curiosity  was  his  besetting  sin.  It  got  him 
into  more  trouble  than  anything  else. 
He  used  to  chew  up  lace  curtains,  and 
taste  the  silk  of  the  chair  covers  in  the  parlors 
just  to  try  them,  though  anything  else  would 
have  done  just  as  well;  and  once  or  twice  he 
actually  tried  the  bottom  of  Mammy's  dress. 


Two    Prisoners  35 

This  was  a  dreadful  mistake  for  him  to  make, 
as  he  found  out,  for  Mammy  allowed  no  liber 
ties  to  be  taken  with  her. 

"Ain't  you  got  no  better  sense'n  to  be  chaw 
ing  my  frock,  dog?"  she  used  to  say.  "Ef  you 
ain't,  I  gwine  teach  you  better."  And  she  did. 

When  he  went  out  to  walk  he  carried  his 
curiosity  to  great  limits;  indeed,  as  it  proved, 
to  a  disastrous  length.  He  had  grown  some 
what  and  could  run  about  without  tripping  up 
over  himself  every  few  steps;  and  as  he  grew  a 
little  older  he  was  always  poking  into  strange 
yards  or  around  new  corners.  Once  or  twice  he 
had  come  near  getting  into  serious  trouble,  for 
large  dogs  suddenly  bounded  up  from  door 
mats  and  out  of  unnoticed  corners  and  ap 
peared  very  curious  to  know  what  business 
he,  a  little,  fat  puppy,  had  coming  into  their 
premises  uninvited.  In  such  cases  Roy  always 
took  out  as  hard  as  his  little  fat  legs  could 
carry  him;  or,  if  they  ran  after  him,  he  just 
curled  over  on  his  back,  holding  up  his  feet  in 


36  Two    Prisoners 

the  most  supplicating  way,  till  no  dog  would 
have  had  the  heart  to  hurt  him. 

At  last  one  day  he  disappeared,  and  no  ef 
forts  could  find  him.  He  was  hunted  for  high 
and  low;  advertisements  were  put  in  the  pa 
pers;  a  reward  was  offered,  and  every  exertion 
was  made  to  find  him;  but  in  vain.  The  last 
that  had  been  seen  of  him  he  was  playing  out  in 
the  street  in  front  of  the  house,  and  had  gone 
down  a  side  street.  It  was  in  the  direction  of 
the  worst  part  of  the  town,  and,  after  he  did 
not  turn  up,  there  was  no  doubt  that  he  was 
stolen,  or  maybe  killed.  Mildred  was  incon 
solable.  She  cried  herself  almost  sick.  Her 
father  offered  to  get  her  another  puppy  just 
like  Roy;  but  it  did  no  good;  it  would  not  be 
Roy,  she  said;  it  would  not  be  lame.  The 
sight  of  the  dolls  which  Roy  had  so  often 
chewed  with  so  much  pleasure  made  her  cry 
afresh.  She  prayed  that  he  might  come  back 
to  her. 


IV. 


y  "*\  HAT  very  afternoon  on  which  Roy 
disappeared  Molly  had  just  got 
•  her  dinner — a  little  soup,  with  a 
knuckle-bone  in  it,  and  a  piece 
of  bread — and  she  was  thinking  what  a 
pity  the  bone  was  so  large,  as  she  was 
hungry,  when  she  heard  something  on  the 
staircase  outside.  The  door  had  been  left 
slightly  open  by  the  woman  who  had  brought 
the  dinner,  and  the  sound  was  quite  distinct; 
it  sounded  like  something  dragging  up  the 
steps.  She  thought  it  was  a  rat,  for  there  were 
a  great  many  of  them  about,  and  she  was  wish 
ing  the  door  was  shut,  for  she  did  not  want  it 
to  come  into  her  room,  and,  besides,  it  was 
cold.  But  as  she  could  not  reach  the  door,  she 
was  about  to  begin  on  her  dinner.  Just  as  she 
started,  however,  she  heard  a  soft  and  low  step 
at  her  door,  and  she  looked  up.  There  came  a 
dear,  fat,  yellow-gray  puppy,  with  a  black 


38  Two    Prisoners 

nose,  walking  in  just  as  straight  and  solemnly 
as  if  he  were  a  doctor  and  had  a  visit  to  pay. 
She  did  not  dare  to  move  for  fear  he  would  be 
frightened  and  go  out;  but  he  did  not  trouble 
himself.  Walking  straight  on,  he  took  a  glance 
around  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  this  was  the 
place  he  wanted,  and  then,  looking  at  her,  he 
gave  a  queer  little  switch  of  his  tail,  which 
twisted  half  his  body  in  the  funniest  way,  and, 
quickening  his  pace,  came  trotting  up  to  her 
bed  and  reared  up  to  try  and  climb  up  on  it. 
Molly  put  her  hand  over  on  it,  and  he  began  to 
lick  it  rapidly  and  whimper  in  his  efforts  to  get 
up.  She  gave  a  little  cry  of  delight  and,  catch 
ing  him,  pulled  him  up  on  the  bed.  He  imme 
diately  began  to  walk  over  her  and  lick  her 
face.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  been 
kissed  in  her  life  that  she  remembered.  The 
next  thing  he  did  was  to  poke  his  little  head 
into  her  soup  bucket,  and  begin  to  eat  as  if  it 
belonged  to  him.  He  finished  the  soup  and 
began  at  the  bone.  This  gave  him  the  great- 


Two    Prisoners  39 

cst  delight.  He  licked  and  nibbled  and  chewed 
it;  got  his  fat  paws  in,  and  worked  over  it. 
Molly,  too,  got  the  greatest  pleasure  out  of  it. 
She  forgot  that  she  was  hungry. 

Suddenly  he  lay  down  and  went  fast  asleep 
snuggled  up  against  her.  Molly  felt  as  if  he 
were  a  little  fat  baby  curled  up  in  her  arm. 
Her  life  seemed  suddenly  to  have  opened. 
The  only  trouble  was  the  fear  that  Mrs. 
O'Meath  might  take  him  away  and  drive  him 
out.  To  prevent  this  was  her  dream.  She 
thought  of  hiding  him,  but  this  was  difficult; 
besides,  she  wanted  to  tell  Mrs.  O'Meath 
about  him. 

The  puppy  stayed  with  her  that  night,  sleep 
ing  beside  her,  and  snuggling  up  against  her 
like  a  little  child.  Molly  had  never  spent  so 
happy  a  night. 

Next  morning  by  light  he  was  awake  hunt 
ing  for  his  knuckle-bone,  and  when  he  got  it 
went  to  work  at  it.  In  the  midst  of  Molly's 


40  Two    Prisoners 

reflections  Mrs.  O'Meath  walked  in.  Her 
eye  fell  on  Roy,  and  Molly's  heart  sank. 

"What's  that  dirty  dog  doin'  in  this  room?" 

Roy  answered  for  himself.  The  hair  on  his 
back  rose  and  he  began  to  bark.  Molly  tried 
to  check  him. 

"Where  did  ye  git  him?" 

"Oh,  Mrs.  O'Meath,  please,  madam,  let  me 
keep  him.  He  came  from  heaven.  I  haven't 
anything,  and  I  want  him  so.  Hush!  You 
must  not  bark  at  Mrs.  O'Meath.  Hush,  sir!" 

But  Roy  just  pulled  loose,  and,  standing 
astride  of  Molly,  barked  worse  than  ever. 

"Not  I,  indeed.  Out  he  goes.  'Ave  I  to  be 
slavin'  meself  to  death  for  the  two  of  you?  It 
isn't  enough  for  the  wan  of  you,  and  him  bark- 
in'  at  me  like  that." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  O'Meath,  please,  madam!  I  will 
sew  for  you  all  my  life,  and  do  everything  you 
want  me  to  do<,"  cried  Molly.  "O  God,  don't 
let  her  take  him  away  from  me!"  she  prayed. 

Whether  it  was  that  Mrs.   O'Meath  was 


Two    Prisoners  41 

troubled  by  the  great,  anxious  eyes  of  the  lit 
tle  girl,  and  did  not  have  the  heart  to  tear  the 
dog  away  from  her,  or  whether  she  thought 
that  perhaps  Roy  was  a  piece  of  property 
worth  preserving,  she  did  not  take  him  away. 
She  simply  contented  herself  with  abusing 
him  for  "a  loud-mouthed  little  baste/'  and 
threatening  to  "teach  him  manners  by  chok 
ing  the  red,  noisy  tongue  out  his  empty  head." 
She  actually  brought  him  a  new  knuckle-bone 
at  dinner  time,  which  greatly  modified  his 
hostility.  No  puppy  can  resist  a  knuckle 
bone. 

Roy  had  been  with  Molly  four  days,  and 
they  had  been  the  sweetest  days  of  the  crip 
pled  girl's  life.  He  had  got  so  that  he  would 
play  with  his  bones  on  the  floor,  rolling  them 
as  a  child  does  a  ball.  He  would  come  when 
Molly  called  him,  and  would  play  with  her,  and 
he  slept  on  her  bed  beside  her.  One  day  he 
walked  out  of  the  room  and  went  down  the 
steps.  Molly  called  and  called,  but  to  no  pur- 


42  Two    Prisoners 

pose.  He  had  disappeared;  he  was  gone. 
Molly's  heart  was  almost  broken.  Her  room 
suddenly  became  a  prison;  her  life  was  too 
dark  to  bear. 

Mildred  had  prayed  and  prayed  in  vain  that 
Roy  might  come  back  to  her,  and  had  at 
length  confided  to  Mammy  that  she  did  not 
believe  he  was  coming,  and  she  was  not  going 
to  pray  any  more.  She  was  sure  now  that  she 
was  the  most  wretched  child  in  the  world.  She 
took  no  pleasure  in  anything,  even  in  the  finest 
new  doll  she  had  ever  seen.  However,  she  was 
playing  with  her  doll  on  the  front  portico  that 
morning  when  Roy  came  walking  up  the  steps 
as  deliberately  as  if  he  had  just  gone  out.  She 
gave  a  little  shriek  of  delight,  and  ran  forward. 
Seeing  her,  he  came  trotting  up,  twisting  him 
self  as  he  always  did  when  he  was  pleased.  She 
called  her  mother.  There  was  a  great  welcom 
ing,  and  Roy  was  petted  like  the  returned 
prodigal.  Mildred  determined  never  again  to 
let  him  get  out  of  her  sight. 


Two    Prisoners  43 

Looking  out  of  her  little  window  next  day 
Molly  saw  her  little  girl  on  the  white  gallery 
romping  with  a  dog,  and  her  heart  was  bitter 
with  envy.  She  glanced  down  at  the  cage  be 
low  her,  and  the  mocking-bird,  which,  whilst 
she  had  the  puppy  she  had  almost  forgotten, 
was  drooping  on  his  perch. 

Mildred,  however,  though  she  watched  Roy 
closely,  did  not  have  a  wholly  easy  time.  After 
this  Roy  had  a  wandering  fever.  One  day  he 
was  playing  in  the  yard  with  Mildred,  who  was 
about  to  give  him  a  roll  she  had.  Near  where 
they  were  playing  stood  a  rose-bush  covered 
with  great  red  roses.  Mildred  thought  it 
would  be  great  fun  to  take  a  rose  and  tease 
Roy  with  it.  So  she  turned  and  broke  off 
from  the  bush  one  of  the  finest.  It  took  some 
little  time,  and  when  she  turned  back,  Roy, 
whether  offended  at  being  neglected  or  struck 
by  some  recollection,  had  squeezed  through 
the  fence,  and  started  down  the  street.  Mil 
dred  called  after  him,  but  he  paid  no  attention 


44  Two    Prisoners 

to  her.  She  opened  the  gate  and  ran  after 
him. 

"Roy,  Roy!"  she  called.  "Here,  Roy,  come 
here." 

But  Roy  took  no  heed  of  her;  he  just  trotted 
on.  When  she  ran  faster  he  ran,  too,  just  as 
if  she  were  a  stranger.  He  turned  into  an 
other  street  and  then  another.  She  had  to 
hurry  after  him  for  fear  she  might  lose  him. 
He  reached  a  dirty  little  narrow  street  and 
turned  in.  She  was  not  far  behind  him,  and 
she  saw  the  door  he  went  into.  She  ran  to  it. 
He  was  going  up  the  stairs,  climbing  steadily 
one  after  another.  As  she  did  not  see  any 
body  to  catch  him  she  went  on  up  after  him. 
She  saw  him  enter  a  door  that  was  slightly 
ajar,  and  when  she  reached  it  she  started  to 
follow  him  in,  but  at  the  sight  that  caught  her 
eye  she  stopped  on  the  threshold.  There  was 
Roy  up  on  a  bed  licking  the  face  of  a  little  girl, 
and  acting  as  if  he  were  wild  with  joy. 


V. 


MOLLY'S  day  had  been  very  dark. 
It  was  dark  without  and  within. 
She  had  suffered  a  great  deal. 
She  had  seen  the  little  girl  on  the 
gallery  playing  with  her  puppy  and  running 
about,   and  her  own   life  had   seemed  very 
wretched.     Mrs.  O'Meath  was  drunk  and  had 
threatened  her  with  the  Poorhouse,  and  she 
had  not  got  any  breakfast;  she  was  very  un 
happy. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  and  the  bird  in 
the  cage  outside  the  window  were  the  most 
wretched  things  in  the  world.  She  thought 
of  her  mother,  and  wondered  if  she  should  go 
to  Heaven  if  she  would  know  her.  Perhaps, 
she  would  not  want  her.  She  lay  back  and 
looked  around  her  little  dark  room,  and  then 
shut  her  eyes  and  began  to-  pray  very  hard.  It 
was  not  much  of  a  prayer,  just  a  fragment,  be 
ginning,  "Our  Father,  who  art  in  Heaven" — 


46  Two    Prisoners 

which  had  somehow  stuck  in  her  memory,  and 
which  she  always  used  when  she  wanted  any 
thing.  Just  then  she  heard  a  noise  outside  on 
the  steps.  It  came  pulling  up  step  by  step, 
and  Roy  trotted  in  at  the  open  door  and  came 
bouncing  and  twisting  over  toward  the  bed. 
In  an  instant  she  had  him  on  the  bed,  and  he 
was  licking  her  face  and  walking  over  her.  She 
heard  a  noise  at  the  door  and  was  aware  that 
some  one  was  there,  and,  looking  up,  she  saw 
standing  in  the  door  the  most  beautiful  creat 
ure  she  had  ever  beheld — a  little  girl  with 
brown  curls  and  big  brown  eyes.  She  was 
bareheaded  and  beautifully  dressed,  and  her 
eyes  were  wide  open  with  surprise.  In  her 
hand  she  held  a  small  green  bough,  with  a  won 
derful  red  thing  on  the  end.  Molly  thought 
she  must  be  a  fairy  or  an  angel. 

Mildred  had  stopped  for  a  moment  and  was 
looking  at  Molly. 

In  her  sympathy  for  the  poor  little  thing  ly 
ing  there  she  forgot  all  about  Roy.  Her  eyes 
were  full  of  pity. 


Two    Prisoners  47 

"How  do  you  do?"  she  said,  coming  softly 
to  the  bedside. 

"Oh,  very  well,  thank  you,"  said  Molly.  "My 
dog  has  come  back." 

"Why,  is  he  your  dog,  too?  He's  my  dog," 
said  Mildred. 

The  face  of  the  crippled  child  fell. 

"Is  he?  I  thought  he  was  mine.  I  hoped 
he  was.  He  came  in  one  day,  and  I  didn't 
know  he  belonged  to  anybody  but  me.  I  had 
been  lying  here  so  long  I  hoped  he  would  al 
ways  stay  with  me." 

The  face  looked  so  sad.  The  large  eyes 
looked  wistful,  and  Mildred  was  sorry  that 
she  had  claimed  the  dog.  She  thought  for  a 
moment. 

"I  will  give  him  to  you,"  she  said,  eagerly. 

Molly's  eyes  lit  up. 

"Oh,  will  you?    Thank  you  so  much." 

"Have  you  got  anything  to  feed  him  on?" 
asked  Mildred. 

"Yes,  some  bones  I  put  away  for  him."  She 


48  Two    Prisoners 

pulled  from  under  the  side  of  the  bed  two 
bones  wrapt  in  paper,  and  Roy  at  once  seized 
them  and  began  to  gnaw  at  them. 

"I  have  a  roll  here  I  will  give  him,"  said  Mil 
dred.  "I  shall  have  my  lunch  when  I  get 
back." 

She  held  out  her  roll.  Molly's  eyes  glist 
ened. 

"Can  I  have  a  little  piece  of  it?"  she  asked 
timidly;  "I  haven't  had  any  breakfast." 

Mildred's  eyes  opened  wide. 

"Haven't  had  any  breakfast,  and  nearly 
lunch  time!  Are  you  going  to  wait  till  lunch 
eon?" 

"  'Luncheon?'  What's  that?"  said  Molly.  "I 
get  dinner  generally;  but  I  am  afraid  I  mayn't 
get  any  to-day.  Mrs.  O'Meath  is  drunk." 

She  spoke  of  it  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of 
course.  Mildred's  face  was  a  study.  The  idea 
of  such  a  thing  as  not  getting  enough  to  eat 
had  never  crossed  her  mind.  'She  could  not 
take  it  in. 


Two    Prisoners  49 

"Here,  take  this;  eat  all  of  it.  I  will  get 
my  mother  to  send  you  some  dinner  right 
away,  and  every  day."  She  took  hold  of 
Molly's  thin  hand  and  stroked  it  in  a  caress 
ing,  motherly  sort  of  way.  "What  is  your 
name?"  She  leaned  over  her  and  stroked  her 
little  dry  brow,  as  her  mother  did  hers  when 
she  had  a  headache. 

"Molly." 

"Molly  what?" 

"I  don't  believe  I've  got  any  other  name," 
said  Molly.  "My  mother  was  named  Mary." 

"Where  is  she?"  asked  Mildred. 

"She's  dead." 

"And  your  father?" 

"Kilt!"  said  Molly.  "  T  least  I  reckon  he 
was.  Mrs.  O'Meath  says  he  was.  I  don't  know 
whether  he's  dead  or  not." 

Mildred's  eyes  opened  wide.  The  idea  of 
any  one  not  knowing  whether  or  not  her 
father  was  living! 

"Who  is  Mrs.  O'Meath?"  she  asked. 


50  Two    Prisoners 

"She's  the  lady  't  takes  care  of  me." 

"Your  nurse?" 

"N —  I  don't  know.     She  ain't  my  mother." 

"Well,  she  don't  take  very  good  care  of 
you,  I  think,"  said  Mildred,  looking  around 
with  an  air  of  disapproval. 

"Oh!  she's  drunk  to-day,"  explained  Molly, 
busily  eating  her  bread. 

"Drunk!"  Mildred's  eyes  opened  with  hor 
ror. 

"Yes.  She'll  be  all  right  to-morrow."  Her 
eyes,  over  the  fragment  of  roll  yet  left,  were 
fastened  on  the  rose  which  Mildred,  in  her 
chase  after  Roy,  had  forgotten  all  about  and 
still  held  in  her  hand. 

"What  is  that?"  she  asked,  presently. 

"What?  This  rose?"  Mildred  held  it  out 
to  her. 

"A  rose !"  The  girl's  eyes  opened  wide  with 
wonder,  and  she  took  it  in  her  thin  hands  as 
carefully  as  if  it  had  been  of  fragile  glass. 
"Oh!  I  never  saw  one  before." 


fro 


'ARE  YOU  A  PRIXCESSr  ASKED  MOLLY 


Two    Prisoners  5 1 

''Never  saw  a  rose  before!  Why,  our  gar 
den  and  yard  are  full  of  them.  I  break  them 
all  the  time." 

"Are  you  a  princess?"  asked  Molly,  gazing 
at  her. 

Mildred  burst  out  into  a  clear,  ringing 
laugh. 

"No.    A  princess!" 

Molly  was  perhaps  a  little  disappointed,  or 
perhaps  she  did  not  wholly  believe  her.  She 
stroked  the  rose  tenderly,  and  then  held  it  out 
to  Mildred,  though  her  eyes  were  still  fastened 
on  it  hungrily. 

"You  can  have  it,"  said  Mildred,  "for  your 


own." 


"Oh!  For  my  own?  My  very  own?"  ex 
claimed  the  cripple,  her  whole  face  lit  up.  Mil 
dred  nodded. 

"Oh!  I  never  thought  I  should  have  a  rose 
for  my  own,  for  my  very  own,"  she  declared, 
holding  it  against  her  cheek,  looking  at  it, 
smelling  it  and  caressing  it  all  at  once,  whilst 


5  2  Two    Prisoners 

Mildred  looked  on  with  open-eyed  wondar 
and  enjoyment. 

Mildred  asked  a  great  many  questions,  and 
Molly  told  her  all  she  knew  about  herself.  She 
had  been  lying  there  in  that  little  room  for 
years  without  ever  going  out,  and  she  had 
never  seen  the  country.  Mildred  learned  all 
about  her  life  there;  about  the  birds  outside 
and  the  bird  in  the  cage.  Mildred  could  see  it 
from  the  window  when  she  climbed  upon  the 
bed.  She  thought  of  the  roses  in  her  garden 
and  of  the  birds  that  sang  around  her  home, 
flying  about  among  the  trees,  and  to  think 
that  Molly  had  never  seen  them!  Her  heart 
ached.  It  dawned  upon  her  that  maybe  she 
could  arrange  to  have  her  see  it.  She  asked 
what  she  would  rather  have  than  anything  in 
the  world. 

"In  the  whole  world?"  asked  Molly. 

"Yes,  in  the  whole  world." 

Molly  thought  profoundly.  "I  would  rather 
have  that  bird  out  there  in  the  cage,"  she  said. 


Two    Prisoners  53 

Mildred  was  surprised  and  a  little  disap 
pointed. 

"Would  you?"  she  asked,  almost  in  a  whis 
per.  "Well,  I  will  ask  my  mamma  to  give  me 
some  money  to  buy  it  for  you.  I've  got  to  go 
now." 

Roy,  who  had  been  asleep,  suddenly  opened 
his  eyes  and  looked  lazily  at  her.  He  crawled 
a  little  closer  up  to  Molly  and  went  asleep 
again. 

"Here,"  said  Molly,  "take  this." 

She  pulled  out  of  her  little  store  inside  the 
bed  where  she  kept  her  treasures  concealed 
a  little  bundle.  It  was  her  doll's  wardrobe. 
Mildred  opened  it. 

"Why,  how  beautiful!  Where  did  you  get 
it?  It  would  just  fit  one  of  my  new  dolls." 

"I  made  it,"  said  Molly. 

"You  did?  I  wish  I  could  make  anything 
like  that,"  said  Mildred,  admiring  the  beauti 
ful  work. 

"Would    you    mind    something?"    Molly 


54  Two    Prisoners 

asked,  timidly.  " Would  you  let  me  kiss  you?" 
She  looked  at  her  pathetically. 

Mildred  leaned  over  and  kissed  the  poor 
little  pale  lips. 

'Thank  you,"  said  Molly,  with  a  flush  on 
her  pale  cheeks. 

"Good-bye.  I  will  come  again,"  said  Mil 
dred,  gravely.  The  eyes  of  the  crippled  girl 
brightened. 

"Oh!  will  you!    Thank  you." 

Mildred  leaned  over  and  kissed  her  again. 

As  she  walked  down  the  dark  stairs  and  out 
of  the  narrow  damp  street  into  the  sunlight 
she  seemed  to  enter  a  new  world.  It  came 
to  her  how  different  her  lot  was,  not  only  from 
that  of  the  poor  little  crippled  girl  lying  in 
that  dark  prison  up  that  rickety  stair,  but  from 
many  and  many  others  who  wanted  nearly 
everything  she  had  in  such  abundance.  She 
almost  trembled  to  think  how  ungrateful  and 
complaining  she  had  been,  and  a  new  feeling 
seemed  to  take  possession  of  her. 


VI. 


DURING  the  hour  of  Mildred's 
absence  there  had  been  great 
excitement  at  her  home.  They 
thought  she  was  lost,  and  they 
were  all  hunting  for  her  everywhere  when 
she  walked  in  with  her  little  bundle  in 
her  hand.  She  might  ordinarily  have  been 
punished  for  going  off  without  permis 
sion,  but  now  they  were  all  too  glad  to 
see  her  back,  and  she  had  such  a  good  ex 
cuse.  Even  Mammy  confined  herself  to  grum 
bling  just  a  little.  Mildred  rushed  to  her 
mother's  room  and  told  her  everything 
about  her  visit — about  Molly  and  everything 
connected  with  her.  She  drew  so  graphic  a 
picture  of  the  little  cripple's  condition  that  her 
mother  at  once  had  a  basket  of  food  prepared 
and  ordered  her  carriage.  Mildred  begged 
to  go  with  her,  so  they  set  out  at  once. 
She  had  taken  notice  of  the  house,  and,  after 


56  Two    Prisoners 

driving  up  one  or  two  streets,  they  found  the 
right  one.  She  asked  her  mother  to  let  her 
carry  the  basket.  When  they  entered  the 
room  Mildred's  mother  found  it  even  worse 
than  Mildred  had  pictured  it ;  but  a  half  hour's 
vigorous  work  made  a  great  change,  and  that 
night,  for  the  first  time  in  many  years,  Molly 
slept  in  a  clean  bed  and  in  as  much  comfort 
as  her  poor  little  broken  body  would  admit. 

That  night  Mildred  could  hardly  sleep  for 
happiness.  She  had  the  money  to  buy  the 
mocking-bird.  Inquiry  was  made  next  day 
on  the  street  where  Mildred  described  the  bird 
as  being.  It  was  found  that  the  only  bird  on 
the  block  belonged  to  a  Mrs.  Johnson,  "a 
widow  lady  who  took  in  sewing."  She  lived 
in  the  third  story  back  room  of  a  certain  house 
and  had  not  been  there  very  long,  so  no  one 
could  tell  anything  about  her  except  that  she 
owned  "a  mocker."  This,  however,  was  all 
that  was  needed,  and  Mildred  was  promised 
that  next  morning  the  bird  should  be  bought 


Two    Prisoners  57 

and  she  should  be  allowed  to  take  it  to  Molly 
with  her  own  hands.  She  planned  just  the 
way  in  which  she  would  surprise  her. 

Next  morning  a  servant  was  sent  around  to 
buy  the  bird.  When  he  returned  Mildred's 
high  hopes  were  all  dashed  to  the  ground.  The 
owner  did  not  wish  to  sell  the  bird.  The 
money  was  doubled  and  the  servant  was  sent 
back.  The  answer  came  back:  "The  bird  was 
not  for  sale."  Mildred  was  grievously  disap 
pointed.  She  could  not  help  crying. 

"Send  to  the  dealer's  and  buy  two  birds," 
said  her  father. 

"Perhaps  the  bird  is  a  pet,"  suggested  her 
mother  gently. 

Mildred  thought  Molly  did  not  want  any 
bird — she  wanted  that  one,  though  she  her 
self  did  not  understand  just  why,  unless  it  was 
that  she  knew  that  one  could  sing. 

"Then  Molly  is  unreasonable,"  said  Mil 
dred's  father. 

Mildred  was  unreasonable,  too-.     If  Molly 


5  8  Two    Prisoners 

did  not  want  any  other  bird  she  did  not  want 
it  either.  She  persuaded  her  mammy  to 
walk  around  through  the  street  where  the 
woman  with  the  mocking-bird  lived.  She 
knew  the  house.  Just  as  she  passed  it  the  door 
opened  and  a  woman  came  down  the  steps 
with  a  bundle.  She  was  dressed  in  black  and 
looked  very  poor,  but  she  also  looked  very 
kind,  and  Mildred,  who  was  gazing  at  the 
door  as  she  came  out,  asked  her  timidly: — "Do 
you  know  Mrs.  Johnson?" 

"Why,  I  am  one  Mrs.  Johnson,"  she  said. 
"Whom  do  you  mean?" 

"The  lady  that  has  the  mocking-bird,"  said 
Mildred. 

"I  have  a  mocking-bird." 

"Have  you?  I  mean  the  lady  that  has  a 
mocking-bird  and  won't  sell  it,"  said  Mildred, 
sadly. 

The  woman  looked  down  at  her  kindly  and 
for  a  moment  did  not  answer.  Then  she 
said: — "What  do  you  know  about  it?" 


Two    Prisoners  59 

"I  wanted  to  buy  it,"  said  Mildred. 

"I  am  sorry  I  could  not  sell  it  to  you/'  said 
Mrs.  Johnson  kindly.  "The  bird  is  all  the 
company  I  have,  and  besides  I  don't  think  it  is 
well.  It  has  not  been  singing  much  lately." 

"Hasn't  it?"  asked  Mildred.  "I  wanted  it 
for  Molly.  She  wants  it." 

"Who  is  Molly?" 

"The  little  crippled  girl  that  lives  around 
that  way."  She  pointed.  "She  lies  at  a  win 
dow  away,  way  up.  You  can  almost  see  her 
out  of  your  window  where  the  cage  hangs. 
She  saw  the  bird  from  her  window  where  she 
lies  and  that's  the  reason  she  wants  it." 

The  woman  looked  down  at  the  little 
girl  thoughtfully.  The  big  eyes  were  gazing 
up  at  her  with  a  look  of  deep  trouble  in  them. 

"You  can  have  the  bird,"  she  said  suddenly. 
"Wait,  I  will  get  it."  And  before  Mildred 
could  take  in  her  good  fortune  she  had  gone 
back  into  the  house,  and  a  second  later  she 
brought  down  the  cage. 


60  Two    Prisoners 

Mildred  had  not  just  understood  that  it  was 
to  be  brought  her  then,  and  a  new  difficulty 
presented  itself. 

"But  I  haven't  any  money,"  she  said. 

"I  don't  want  any  money,"  said  the  poor 
lady. 

"But  I  can  send  it  to  you." 

"I  don't  want  any;  I  give  it  to  you." 

Mildred  was  not  sure  that  she  ought  to  ac 
cept  the  bird  this  way.  "Do  you  think  mam 
ma  would  mind  it?"  she  asked  earnestly. 

"Not  if  she  ever  had  a  crippled  child,"  said 
the  woman. 

"She  had.  But  I'm  well  now,"  said  Mil 
dred. 

She  took  the  cage  and  bore  it  down  the 
street,  talking  to  her  mammy  of  the  joy  Molly 
would  have  when  she  took  the  bird  to  her. 
The  poor  woman  suddenly  turned  and  went 
back  into  the  house  and  up  the  stairs,  and  a 
second  later  was  leaning  out  of  the  window 
scanning  one  by  one  every  window  in  sight. 


Two    Prisoners  6 1 

Mildred  and  her  mammy  soon  found  the 
rickety  house  where  Molly  lived,  and  as  Mil 
dred  climbed  the  stairs  to  Molly's  room, 
though  she  walked  as  softly  as  she  could,  her 
heart  was  beating  so  she  was  afraid  Molly 
might  hear  it.  Curious  faces  peeped  at  her  as 
she  went  up,  for  the  visit  to  Molly  of  the  day 
before  was  known,  but  Mildred  did  not  mind 
them.  She  thought  only  of  Molly  and  her  joy. 
She  reached  the  door  and  opened  it  softly  and 
peeped  in.  Molly  was  leaning  back  on  her 
pillow  very  white  and  languid;  but  she  was 
looking  for  her,  and  she  smiled  eagerly  as  she 
caught  her  eye.  Mildred  walked  in  and  held 
up  the  cage.  Molly  gave  a  little  scream  of 
delight  and  reached  out  her  hands. 

"Oh,  Mildred,  is  it—?"  She  turned  and 
looked  out  of  the  window  at  the  place  where 
it  used  to  hang.  Yes,  it  was  the  same. 

Mildred  had  a  warm  sensation  about  the 
heart,  which  was  perfect  joy. 

" Where  shall  I  put  it?"  she  asked.     "He 


62  Two    Prisoners 

looks  droopy,  but  Mrs.  Johnson  says  he  used 
to  sing  all  the  time.  He  is  not  hungry,  be 
cause  he  has  feed  in  the  cage.  I  don't  know 
what  is  the  matter  with  him." 

"I  do,"  said  Molly,  softly. 

She  showed  where  she  wanted  the  cage,  and 
Mildred  climbed  up  and  put  it  in  the  open 
window.  Then  she  propped  Molly  up.  She 
had  never  seen  Molly's  eyes  so  bright,  and 
her  cheeks  had  two  spots  of  rich  color  in 
them.  She  looked  really  pretty.  She  put 
her  arm  around  the  cage  caressingly.  The 
frightened  bird  fluttered  and  uttered  a  little 
cry  of  fear. 

"Never  mind,"  murmured  Molly,  softly,  as 
she  pulled  at  the  catch.  "It  is  only  a  minute 
more,  and  there  will  be  the  fields  and  the  sky." 

The  peg  was  drawn  out  and  she  opened  the 
door  wide.  The  bird  did  not  come  out;  it  just 
fluttered  backwards  and  forwards.  Molly 
pushed  the  cage  a  little  further  out  of  the  win 
dow.  The  bird  got  quiet.  It  turned  its  head 


Two    Prisoners  6  3 

and  looked  out  of  the  door.  Mildred  had 
clasped  her  hands  tightly,  and  was  looking  on 
with  speechless  surprise.  She  thought  it 
might  be  some  spell  of  Molly's.  The  bird 
hopped  out  of  the  cage  on  to  the  window-sill 
and  stood  for  a  second  in  a  patch  of  sunlight. 
It  craned  its  neck  and  gazed  all  around  cu 
riously;  turned  and  looked  at  the  cage,  and 
then  fastened  its  eye  steadily  on  Molly,  shook 
itself  in  the  warm  air,  gave  a  little  trill,  almost 
a  whimper,  and  suddenly  tore  away  in  the 
sunlight. 

Mildred  gave  a  little  gasp,  "Oh!"  But 
Molly  did  not  move  a  muscle.  Straight  away 
the  bird  flew,  at  first  up  and  then  on  over  the 
black  houses  and  the  smoke  toward  the  blue 
sky  over  Mildred's  home,  his  wings  beating 
the  fresh  spring  air,  on,  on,  growing  smaller  to 
the  sight,  flying  straight  for  the  open  coun 
try — a  mere  speck — till  at  last  he  faded  from 
sight.  Molly  lay  motionless,  with  her  gaze 
still  on  the  fair  blue  sky  where  he  had  disap- 


64  Two    Prisoners 

peared,  as  if  she  could  still  see  him.     Her  lips 
had  been  moving,  but  now  were  stilled. 

"There!"  she  said,  softly.  "At  last!"  and 
sank  back  on  the  pillow,  her  eyes  closed,  her 
face  full  of  deep  content.  Mildred  sat  and 
gazed  at  her,  at  first  with  a  vague  wonder  and 
then  almost  with  awe.  A  new  idea  seemed  to 
enter  her  mind.  Could  Molly  be  sending  the 
mocking-bird  to  heaven  with  a  message  to  her 
mother? 


VII. 


r  iHE  poor  lady  who  had  given  Mil 

dred  the  bird  was  still  leaning  out 
*  of  her  window  studying  the  backs 
of  the  houses  on  the  other  street 
down  below  hers  in  the  direction  the  little 
girl  had  gone,  when  at  the  top  window 
of  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  tum- 
bled-down  houses  there  was  a  movement,  and 
a  flash  of  sunlight  on  something  caught 
her  eye.  Yes,  that  was  the  place.  Look 
ing  hard,  she  could  make  out  what  was 
going  on.  She  could  see  the  cage  set  on  the 
window  sill  and  two  little  figures  on  the  bed 
at  the  open  window.  It  was  a  flash  of  sun 
shine  on  the  cage  which  had  reached  her.  She 
knew  now  where  the  bird  would  hang,  and  if 
it  ever  sang  again  she  would  be  able  to  hear  it 
faintly.  In  the  distant  past  she  had  heard 
birds  singing  at  least  that  far  off.  She  was 
watching  intently,  when  to  her  astonishment 


66  Two    Prisoners 

she  saw  the  bird  step  out  on  the  sill  into 
the  sunlight,  and  the  next  second  it  dashed 
away.  It  had  escaped!  With  a  gasp  she 
watched  it  until  it  rose  above  the  housetops 
and  disappeared  far  away  in  the  depths  of  the 
blue  sky. 

When  it  had  quite  disappeared  she  looked 
back  at  the  window.  The  two  little  figures 
were  there  as  still  as  ever.  There  was  no  ex 
citement.  Could  they  have  set  the  bird  free 
on  purpose?  She  gazed  at  them  long  and 
earnestly,  then  turned  and  looked  back  at  the 
sky  where  the  bird  had  faded  from  her  view. 
It  was  deep  and  fathomless,  without  a  speck. 
Her  thoughts  followed  the  lost  bird — 
away  over  the  housetops  into  the  country, 
into  the  past,  into  the  illimitable  heavens. 
Her  life  was  all  spread  out  before  her  like  a 
panorama.  She  saw  a  beautiful  country  of 
green  fields,  where  lambs  skipped  and  played; 
gardens  filled  with  flowers,  and  orchards  with 
clouds  of  bloom,  where  bees  hummed  all  day 


Two    Prisoners  67 

long  and  birds  sang  in  the  leafy  coverts.  A 
little  girl  was  playing  there  as  free  as  the  birds; 
as  joyous  as  the  lambs.  In  time  the  little 
girl  grew  to  be  a  big  girl.  And  one  day  a 
lad  came  up  the  country  road  and  stopped 
at  the  gate  and  looked  across  at  her.  He 
was  shy,  but  pleasant  looking,  and  after  a 
moment  he  opened  the  gate  and  came  straight 
up  to  her  and  asked  for  lodging.  He  was  un 
like  any  one  else  she  had  ever  known.  He  had 
come  from  a  State  far  away.  He  looked  into 
her  eyes,  and  she  felt  a  sudden  fear  lest  her 
father  would  not  take  him  in.  He  was,  how 
ever,  given  lodging,  and  he  stayed  on  and  on, 
and  helped  her  father  on  the  farm.  He  knew 
more  than  any  one  she  had  ever  seen,  and  he 
bought  her  books  and  taught  her.  The  girl's 
whole  life  seemed  to  open  up  under  his  in 
fluence,  and  in  his  presence.  She  used  to  wan 
der  with  him  through  the  pleasant  woods; 
among  the  blossoms;  in  the  moonlight;  read 
ing  with  him  the  books  he  brought  her;  find- 


68  Two    Prisoners 

ing  new  realms  of  which  she  had  never  dream 
ed.  Then  one  evening  he  had  leaned  over,  and 
put  his  arm  around  her  and  begun  to  speak  as 
he  had  never  spoken  before.  Her  happiness 
was  almost  a  pain,  and  yet  it  was  only  such 
pain  as  the  bud  must  feel  when  the  warm  sun 
unfolds  its  petals  and  with  its  deep  eyes  seeks 
its  fragrant  heart.  The  young  girl's  life  sud 
denly  opened  as  that  rose  opens;  and  for  a  time 
she  seemed  to  walk  in  paradise.  Then  clouds 
had  gathered;  talk  of  war  disturbed  the  peace 
of  her  quiet  life.  Her  lover  was  on  one  side, 
her  father  on  the  other.  One  day  the  storm 
burst.  War  came.  Her  husband  felt  that  he 
must  go.  Her  father  said  that  if  she  went 
with  him  she  could  never  more  come  back. 
Her  heart  was  torn  asunder  and  yet  she  could 
not  hesitate.  Her  place  was  with  her  hus 
band.  So  she  had  parted  from  her  father;  she 
half  fainting  with  sorrow,  he  white  and  broken, 
yet  both  sustained  by  the  sense  of  duty.  For 
a  time  there  had  been  great  happiness  in  a 


Two    Prisoners  69 

baby  girl,  who,  though  feeble,  was  the  light  of 
her  eyes.  The  doctors  said  if  she  were  taken 
care  of  she  would  outgrow  her  trouble.  Then 
came  a  bitterer  parting  than  the  first;  her  hus 
band  went  off  to  the  war,  leaving  her  a 
stranger  in  a  strange  land,  with  only  her  baby. 
Even  this  was  not  the  worst.  Shortly  came 
the  terrible  tidings  that  her  husband  had 
been  desperately  wounded  and  left  in  the  en 
emy's  hands.  She  must  go  to  him.  She 
learned  at  the  last  moment  that  she  could  not 
take  her  child  with  her.  Yet  it  was  life  or 
death.  She  must  go.  Then  Providence  had 
seemed  to  open  the  way.  Unexpectedly  she 
met  an  old  friend;  a  woman  who  had  been  a 
servant  of  her  mother's  in  the  old  days  back 
at  her  old  home.  Though  she  had  one  weak 
ness,  one  fault,  she  was  good  and  kind,  and 
she  had  always  been  devoted  to  her.  She 
would  take  care  of  her  child.  So  she  left  the 
little  girl  with  her,  together  with  the  few  pieces 
of  jewelry  she  possessed.  She  herself  set  off 


yo  Two    Prisoners 

to  go  through  the  lines  to  her  husband.  It 
was  a  long  journey.  In  time  she  arrived  at 
the  place  where  he  had  been.  But  it  was  too 
late.  He  was  gone.  All  that  was  left  was  an 
unmarked  mound  in  a  field  of  mounds.  Since 
that  time  there  had  been  for  her  nothing  but 
graves.  Just  then  the  lines  were  closely  drawn, 
and  before  she  could  get  back  through  them 
she  had  heard  from  the  woman  that  her  child 
was  dead  of  a  pestilence  that  had  broken  out, 
and  she  herself  dying.  So  she  was  left.  In  her 
loneliness  she  had  turned  to  her  father.  She 
could  go  to  him.  He,  too,  was  dead.  The  war 
had  killed  him.  His  property  had  melted  away. 
The  old  home  had  passed  from  his  hands  and 
he  himself  had  gone,  one  of  the  unnamed  and 
unnumbered  victims. 

When  at  length  the  war  had  closed  the 
widowed  and  childless  woman  had  gone  back 
to  where  she  had  left  her  child,  to  find  at  least 
its  grave.  But  even  this  was  denied  her. 
There  had  been  a  pestilence,  and  in  war  so 


Two    Prisoners  71 

many  are  falling  that  a  child's  death  makes  no 
difference  except  to  those  who  love  it.  The 
mother  could  not  find  even  the  grave  to  put  a 
flower  on. 

Since  that  time  she  had  lived  alone — always 
alone  except  for  the  memories  of  the  past. 
Her  gift  with  her  needle  enabled  her  to  make 
enough  to  keep  body  and  soul  together.  But 
her  heart  hungered  for  that  it  had  lost. 

Of  late  her  memories  had  gone  back  much 
to  her  girlhood;  when  she  had  walked  among 
the  fruit  trees  with  the  lambs  frisking  and  the 
birds  singing  about  her.  She  had  bought  the 
mocking-bird  to  sing  to  her.  It  bore  her  back 
to  the  time  when  her  lover  had  walked  beside 
her;  and  there  had  been  no  thought  of  war, 
with  its  blood  and  its  graves.  She  tried  to 
blot  out  that  dreadful  time;  to  obliterate  it 
from  her  memory;  to  bridge  it  over,  except  for 
the  memory  of  her  child — with  its  touch,  its 
voice,  its  presence.  Always  that  called  her,  and 
she  prayed — if  she  only  might  find  its  grave. 


72  Two    Prisoners 

For  this  she  had  come  back  once  more  to 
the  place  where  she  had  left  it,  and  where  she 
knew  its  grave  was.  She  had  not  found  it ;  but 
had  put  flowers  on  many  unmarked  little 
mounds;  and  had  blessed  with  her  tender  eyes 
many  unknown  little  crippled  children. 

The  mention  of  the  crippled  girl  had  opened 
her  heart.  And  now  when  she  lifted  her  head 
she  was  in  some  sort  comforted.  She  rose  and 
took  up  her  bundle,  and  once  more  went  down 
into  the  street.  She  determined  to  go  and  see 
the  little  crippled  child  who  had  let  her  bird  go. 

She  could  not  go,  however,  till  next  day, 
and  when  she  went  she  learned  that  the  child 
had  been  taken  away  by  a  rich  lady  and  sent 
to  a  hospital.  This  was  all  the  people  she  saw 
knew.  She  did  not  see  Mrs.  O'Meath. 


VIII. 

A  I  SOON  as  Molly  could  be  moved 
she  was  taken  from  the  hospital 
out  to  Mildred's  country  home. 
She  had  pined  so  to  see  the  coun 
try  that  the  doctors  said  it  might  start  her 
towards  recovery  and  would  certainly  do  her 
good.     So  Mildred's  mother  had  closed  her 
town  house  earlier  than  usual  and  moved  out 
before  Easter. 

From  the  very  beginning  it  seemed  to  do 
her  good.  The  fresh  air  and  sunshine;  the 
trees  just  putting  on  their  spring  apparel; 
the  tender  green  grass;  the  flowers,  and  the 
orchards  filled  with  bloom,  all  entranced  her 
and  invigorated  her.  She  loved  to  be  out  of 
doors,  to  lie  and  look  at  the  blue  sky,  with 
the  great  white  clouds  sailing  away  up  in  it 
(she  said  they  were  great  snow  islands  that 
floated  about  in  the  blue  air),  and  to  listen 
to  the  songs  of  the  birds  flitting  about  in 


74  Two    Prisoners 

the  shrubbery  and  trees.  She  said  she  felt 
just  as  that  mocking  bird  must  have  done  that 
day  when  he  stood  in  the  warm  sunshine  and 
saw  the  blue  sky  above  him  when  he  got 
out  of  prison.  Mildred  used  to  take  her  play 
things  and  stay  with  her,  and  read  to  her  out 
of  her  story  books,  whilst  Roy  would  lie 
around  and  look  lazy  and  contented.  There 
was  no  place  where  he  loved  to  sleep 
so  well  as  on  Molly's  couch,  snuggled  up 
against  her. 

One  afternoon  she  was  lying  on  her  couch 
out  in  the  yard.  Mildred  was  sitting  by  her, 
and  Roy  was  asleep  against  her  arm.  It  was 
Easter  Sunday,  and  everything  was  unusually 
quiet  and  peaceful.  There  had  been  a  good 
deal  of  talk  about  Easter.  Molly  did  not 
know  what  Easter  was,  and  she  had  been  won 
dering  all  day.  Mildred  herself  had  mentioned 
it  several  times.  She  had  a  beautiful  new 
dress,  and  Mrs.  Johnson,  the  lady  who  had 
given  her  the  mocking  bird,  and  for  whom  her 


Two    Prisoners  75 

mother  had  gotten  a  place,  had  made  it.  Still 
to  Molly's  mind  this  was  not  all  that  Easter 
meant.  Molly  had  heard  something  about 
somebody  coming  back  from  the  dead.  This 
had  set  her  to  thinking  all  day.  She  knew 
about  Sunday,  because  that  day  people  did  not 
go  to  work  as  on  other  days;  and  could  not  go 
into  the  barroom  by  the  front  door,  and  some 
of  them  went  to  church.  But  Easter  was 
different.  Something  strange  was  to  happen. 
But  nothing  had  happened.  Mildred  had 
been  to  church  with  her  mother;  but  no  one 
had  come.  Even  the  poor  lady  who  had  made 
Mildred's  dress,  and  who  had  been  invited  to 
come  out  to  the  country  and  spend  Easter,  had 
not  appeared;  and  had  written  that  she  could 
not  come  until  the  evening,  if  she  could  get  off 
at  all.  So  Molly  was  puzzled  and  a  little  dis 
appointed.  She  had  waited  all  day  and  no  one 
had  come.  She  must  have  misunderstood  or 
else  they  had  told  her  a  lie.  Now  Mildred  was 
sitting  by  her. 


76  Two    Prisoners 

"Mildred,"  she  said.  Mildred  leaned  over 
her. 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"Do  you  think  my  mother  will  know  me 
when  I  get  to  Heaven?  I  was  so  little  when 
she  went  away." 

Mildred  told  her  that  a  mother  would  know 
her  child  always.  "Just  so."  This  seemed  to 
satisfy  her. 

A  mocking-bird  on  a  lilac  bush  began  to 
sing.  It  sang  until  the  air  seemed  to  be  filled 
with  music. 

"Molly,"  said  Mildred,  "I  wonder  if  that  is 
not  your  mocking-bird?"  Molly's  eyes  turned 
slowly  in  that  direction. 

"I  think  maybe  he  went  to  Heaven  that  day, 
to  my  mother,"  she  said,  softly. 

"And  told  your  mother  that  you  set  him 
free?" 

Suddenly  Molly  spoke,  slowly  and  softly. 

"Mildred,  I  am  very  happy,"  she  said.     "If 


Two    Prisoners  77 

I  had  all  the  money  in  the  world,  do  you  know 
what  I  would  do  with  it?" 

"No.  What?"  Mildred  took  her  hand 
and  leaned  over  her.  She  did  not  answer  im 
mediately.  She  was  looking  at  the  far  away 
horizon  beyond  the  blue  hills,  where  the  softly 
fading  light  was  turning  the  sunset  sky  into  a 
land  of  purple  and  gold.  Presently  she  said: — 

"I  would  buy  up  all  the  birds  in  the  world 
that  are  in  cages — every  one — and  set  them 
free."  Mildred  looked  at  her  in  vague  won 
der. 

"Mildred,  what  is  Easter?"  she  asked  sud 
denly.  Mildred  was  astonished.  The  idea  of 
any  one  not  knowing  what  Easter  was! 

"Why  Easter  was  the  time  when "    She 

paused  to  find  just  the  word  she  wanted,  and 
as  it  did  not  come  to  her  mind  she  began  to 
think  what  Easter  really  was.  It  was  harder 
to  explain  than  she  had  thought.  Of  course, 
she  knew;  but  she  just  could  not  remember 
exactly  all  about  it.  Oh !  Yes 


78  Two    Prisoners 

"Why  Easter  is  the  time  when  you  have 
nice  things — a  new  dress  and  don't  have  to 
give  up  butter  or  candy,  or  any  thing  you  want 
to  eat — don't  you  know?" 

This  was  beyond  Molly's  experience.  She 
did  not  know.  Mildred  was  not  satisfied  with 
her  explanation.  She  added  to  it.  "Why,  it's 
the  day  Christ  rose  from  the  dead — Don't  you 
know?" 

"Is  that  a  fairy  tale?"  asked  Molly. 

"No,  of  course  not;  it's  the  truth."  Mil 
dred  looked  much  shocked.  Molly  looked  a 
little  disappointed. 

"Oh!  I  was  in  hopes  it  was  a  fairy  tale. 
Tell  me  about  it." 

Mildred  began,  and  told  the  story;  at  first  in 
vague  sentences  merely  to  recall  it  to  Molly's 
memory,  and  then  as  she  saw  the  interest  of 
her  hearer,  in  full  detail  with  the  graphic  force 
of  her  own  absolute  belief.  She  had  herself 
never  before  felt  the  reality  of  the  story  as  she 
did  now,  with  Molly's  eager  eyes  fastened  on 


Two    Prisoners  79 

her  face;  her  white  face  filled  with  wonder  and 
earnestness,  her  thin  hand  holding  hers,  and  at 
times  clutching  it  until  it  almost  hurt  her. 
She  began  with  the  birth  in  the  manger  and 
ended  with  the  rising  in  the  garden. 

"And  did  he  sure  'nough  come  back — what 
you  call  rise  again?"  said  Molly  presently. 
Mildred  nodded.  She  was  still  under  the  spell 
of  Molly's  vivid  realization  of  it. 

"And  where  is  He  now?" 

"He  went  back  up  to  Heaven."  Mildred 
looked  up  in  the  sky.  Molly  too  looked  up 
and  scanned  the  pale  blue  cloudless  depths. 

"Can  He  send  back  anybody  he  wants?" 

Mildred  thought  so. 

"Then  I'm  going  to  ask  Him  to  send  back 
my  mother  to  me,"  she  said.  "I  did  not  know 
about  Him.  I  always  asked  God;  but  I  never 
thought  He  would  do  it.  I  always  thought 
He  had  too  much  to  do  to  think  about  a  poor 
little  thing  like  me — except  once.  I  asked 
Him  not  to  let  Mrs.  O'Meath  take  Roy  and 


80  Two    Prisoners 

He  didn't.  But  I  never  asked  that  other  one. 
Maybe  that's  the  reason  He  never  did  it  De- 
fore.  He'll  know  about  it  and  maybe  He'll 
do  it,  because  He  was  a  little  child  too  once, 
and  he  must  know  how  bad  I  want  her." 
She  ducked  her  head  down,  squeezed  her 
eyes  tightly,  and  remained  so  about  two 
minutes. 

This  was  a  little  too  complicated  for  Mil 
dred's  simple  theology.  She  was  puzzled ;  but 
she  watched  Molly  with  a  vague^  curious  in 
terest.  Molly  opened  her  eyes  and  gazed  up 
to  the  skies  with  an  air  of  deep  relief,  not  un- 
mingled  with  curiosity. 

"Now,  I'm  going  to  see  if  He'll  do  it,"  she 
said.  "I've  asked  Him  real  hard  three  times, 
and  if  He  wont  do  it  for  that  I  aint  ever  goin' 
to  ask  Him  no  more."  Mildred  felt  shocked, 
but  somehow  Molly's  eagerness  impressed 
her,  and  she  too  followed  Molly's  gaze  up  into 
the  deep  ether,  and  sat  in  silence.  Roy  moved 
his  head  a  little  and  licked  Molly's  hand 


•"MOTHER:  SHE   WHISPERED" 


Two    Prisoners.'  [ 

'•.•/•\  :..::*  '•.•*:*-l 

gently.     The  mocking-bird  sang  sweetly  in 

the  softening  light.  The  only  other  sound 
was  that  of  footsteps  coming  softly  across  the 
grass.  Mildred,  half  turning,  could  see  from 
where  she  sat.  Her  mother  and  another  per 
son,  who,  as  she  came  near,  Mildred  saw  was 
Mrs.  Johnson,  the  poor  woman  who  had  given 
her  the  mocking-bird,  were  coming  together. 
As  they  came  nearer  Mildred's  mother  was 
just  saying: — 

"This  is  the  little  girl  who  turned  the  bird 
loose." 

Molly  was  still  watching  the  far  off  skies, 
too  earnest  to  hear  the  new  comers.  Mrs. 
Johnson's  eyes  fell  on  her.  She  stopped; 
started  on  again;  stopped  again,  and  drew  her 
hand  across  her  forehead,  as  if  she  were  dream 
ing  and  trying  to  awake.  The  next  second 
with  a  cry  she  was  down  on  her  knees  beside 
Molly's  lounge,  her  arms  around  her. 

"My  baby !" 

The  cripple  lay  quite  still,  gazing  into  her 


82  1  "  .  Two    Prisoners 


eyes  with  vague  wonder.  Then  a  sudden 
light  seemed  to  fall  across  her  face. 

"Mother?"  she  whispered,  with  an  awed  in 
quiry  in  her  tone.  Then  as  she  caught  the 
look  in  the  eyes  fastened  on  hers  the  inquiry 
passed  away  and  a  deeper  light  seemed  to  illu 
mine  her  face. 

"Mother!"  she  cried. 


THE   END 


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